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I would love to tell you it was a long, hot summer, but I suspect
it was grey and drizzly. It was the summer I took my GCSE exams, and as they
were over by mid June, it was the awakening summer of young adult novels.

It wasn’t that I led a sheltered life. I defy anyone to go
to Catholic co-ed secondary school and come out without at least observing a
very wide range of experience. At the same time, my then undiagnosed autism
made me feel like I was in a bubble, not really part of world I walked through.
I was very fortunate to be part of a group of friends. I think at the time I
thought they were all friends with each other and I was the hanger on, but now
I realise just how much they really looked out for me and included me without
realising why I was always the one asleep in doorways at parties.

I was weeks shy of turning 16, and never been kissed, which was why my friends fixed me up with a guy at a local music festival. I’m not sure I’d ever met him before, and probably not since, but he was someone’s much older cousin and I’d had enough cider this seemed like a good idea, so off we went into the woods.

A very few minutes later, I was naked to the waist, exposed on my back in the leaf litter, feet from the public footpath. I remember the sky through the trees, how hot and wet his mouth seemed on chilled skin and the scent and feel of leaf mould beneath and around us. The rustle of other people finding their way into the woods for the same experience. Skin wet with rain. Feeling the strangeness of his hard dick pressing against me, rutting against my thigh.

I don’t think I realised at the time that so much later in
my life I would still think of that experience. How much it would filter
through everything I’ve grown to enjoy.

It didn’t matter who he was. That was something I learnt about myself that day. Books had been a great source of information and I now knew life was far more Jilly Cooper than Mills and Boon. I wanted the experience, the sensations, more than I wanted a grand romance. I wanted those hard fingers pushing beneath my clothes. Wanted him to use me to get off.

I wanted Lysander’s moment dancing to Blue Pearl in the
garden. I was prepared to be that unashamed.

I wanted the risk of discovery.

For an otherwise “good girl”, this was a strange juxtaposition.

Being scientific, I repeated the experiment to try to work out why. As often as I could.

It’s easy to see this through this light of adulthood and think
maybe this is how I choose to see it now, but in a box beneath my bed are my
diaries and writing from the time in beautifully teenage handwriting. In words
I didn’t know I tried to explain things I didn’t understand. I rolled the problem
round in crap poetry trying to work out whether I was making powerful decisions
or doing things to fit in with what I thought I should be doing.

As a teenager living at home, you don’t have a bed to take people to… but living caught between countryside and coast there were plenty of places to be alone enough. My favourites were open spaces. The beaches, just over the tidal lip from the car parks. The sheep runs in the bracken on the moor tops. The Victorian Park in the sodium orange night.

At Uni I had my own room, but that was my space. Being somewhere untraceable was a type of emotional safety and security of its own, even when it went wrong. And it did go wrong. It was still that strange mix of taking control and risking it all to fate. Of the freedom to roam as a wild animal in the urban jungle as both predator and prey.

The scratches and bruises from being pressed into rough
walls were the first marks that made me feel proud.

I’ve been with my husband for a long time now, and we are
settled and domestic and middle class. I’m am still the same good girl I was at
15. Which is why, after the kids are safely tucked in bed most evenings, when
the temperature is bareable, we can be found naked in the garden.

It feels right to be an animal in its natural environment. We are cautious and polite to our neighbours, carefully cultivating a wall of trees for privacy and a well draped gazebo, but the house is full of commitments and obligations and the garden is quiet of those.

I am a sensory led being and outside there is so much stimulation. Temperature, air movement and scent fill my mind, pushing away domestic worry. A different quality of quiet than inside the home, full of creatures and people making their own way through time and space. People who need nothing from me.

I feel free.

We can just be us. Human animals. Skin on skin, if we want.

We can be exhibitionist whilst not, silently fucking feet away from a busy footpath, safely tucked behind a brick wall. Hidden from overlooking windows by the soft blanket of night.

We can be creative. Whilst heavy duty fixing points would look odd in the house, outside they are just overly cautious fixing points for hanging baskets and washing lines.

There have been whispers on twitter from regular posters… “I don’t keep outtakes… what shall I post?”

Until very recently, I used to delete anything I didn’t perceive to be perfect, especially if I didn’t think it showed me in a flattering light. I have a very tight frame of what images I allow of myself and don’t take pictures where I appear very often, either as selfies or as the catalog of family life. There are whole holidays without a single sign I was ever there.

I am trying to be more open minded. I see amazing images from other bloggers and keep pictures I’m not sure. Come back to them a little while later to see if I’ve changed my mind with distance.

There is a difference between a photo that didn’t work like this, because the shadows and focus were wrong… and something where I didn’t like the way my body looked in the image.

I loved the intent of this shot… and the lovely husband behind the camera loves it, and in its uncropped form with even more wobbly bits highlighted in the heated light of the chimneria and I guess posting it is an act of defiance against myself for feeling ashamed of said wobbly bits. For missing the mark with body confidence. Because if this was someone else’s body I’d be seeing different things in the image, focusing on different things…

There is one last photo from this fab child-free evening, but I’m saving that as illustration for Kink of the Week, as obviously these are outside photos…It is in my view the best picture, but there is part of me on it I hate, so I resisted posting it to begin with. Coming back to it a few weeks later, looking at it as if it were on someone else’s blog, I’m now committing to using it.

A little thing happened Eroticon weekend in Camden that left me feeling upset… Not at the conference I hasten to add, which is brilliant and lovely, but as a sort of side effect.

I am someone who struggles to be confident with my body. It doesn’t conform to media portrayals of femininity.

When I was 12 I reached my full height of 180cm, (6ft) and my feet were a 42 (size 8). All the cute boys came to my elbows if I was lucky. I was straight hipped and broad shouldered and although I didn’t really understand it at the time, gender and sexuality confused.

And flat chested… relatively. A cups easily flattened under a vest, far more pecs than boobs. And this continued for years.

No, I’m not posting someone else’s pictures… 4 babies later and I have the other problems.

The thing that happened wasn’t lingerie related. It was shoes. Round the corner from the hotel I stayed at was the Doc Martens’ store. And I really wanted a pair. The front of shop was full of beautiful boots, from holographic finishes and velvet to plain black with rainbow stitching. But I now wear a UK 10 or 11. First, I was ignored in favour of the cuter, hipster customers, which normally would have been my cue to leave. the universal sign of “you don’t fit here”. But I had Eroticon confidence running through my veins, so I toughed it out and eventually asked how would I know which shoes I could get in my size.

I was directed down a set of stairs to the clearly labelled men’s department.

There was a choice of black, burgundy or vegan.

I walked out.

How does this relate to lingerie? My chest has done the opposite. From masculine to maternal. But I still can’t buy bras. I walk into shops and ask for my size and get askance looks.

I had stopped asking. The bra that I dug out from the back of the draw for last week’s photo was last worn between babies two and three, had lost wires and yet, I hadn’t thrown it away because I knew I couldn’t replace it. I had the grand total of 3 serviceable bras, one nude, two black, left in the world, and like shoe shopping I had lost the nerve to go looking for something more pretty than serviceable.

Twelve websites later, and I found somewhere that had my size, in a choice of styles and at a price I could afford.

I hate to be made to feel less because of my size and my height. I hate the assumptions made about what I might be like based on things over which I have no control. I didn’t ask for the F cup chest I have now, any more than I wanted the A cups I wore through my teenage years anymore than I want size 10 feet.

Last week for Wicked Wednesday’s prompt we had a story starter of being home alone… and I had started something I really wanted to finish. It just so happened that Bee’s glorious picture fit the story perfectly. I suggest you read the first part…which is a little more anticipatory… while this is a bit more direct.

Follow the link to see who else has been getting off today.

I shuffle low on the
bed, my head below the pillows, knees bent and my feet curled against the
bedstead. Fan my hair out, dark on the snowy white of the sheets. This is,
after all, predominantly about the visual for him. For our friends.

“Beautiful, petal.
You’re sleepy and warm and comfortable. Thinking of me and how I would be touching
you if I were there. Use your hands.”

Stretching like a cat,
I arch and the blanket falls lower around my waist. My hands, his hands, are slow
and deliberate, but not tentative. I wake my body with firm squeezes and
pinches. With the delicate fabrics and the harsh bite of my own nails.

When we lie together,
without continents between us, I watch him with ravenous eyes. Take in every mark
on his skin, the way the hair of his beard grows differently on his neck and
his jaw, the flush of blood to his cheeks as I arouse him. I feast on those
memories now. Draw up the perfection of images and sensations from every last greedy
fuck.

He sees my blue nailed
fingers twisting at the tight nubs of my nipples. Sees me pull and roll the
flesh roughly. I feel his mouth, his breath panting in hot wet bursts between
aching, drawing suckles. Teeth and tongue trapping me, I let go of the cries that
spill as we dance backwards and forwards across the line of too much and not
enough.

They hear me, and I
wonder if their mouths are wet for the taste of soft, salty skin.

My legs shift
restlessly against the cool sheets, rucking the slip higher, its silky finish
complimenting the needy slickness gathering between my thighs. The scent of my
arousal is mixing with the cool cotton of the freshly made bed, so different
from the heavy muskiness we create when combined. The rounded scent of his sex,
savoury and spicy, is missing I feel pangs of hunger for him pierce through me.

“I know you’re wet for
me. For us. Show us what you’ve got, petal.”

He calls me many
things, but when I am his petal, we are something else. I am his, but he is
holding me up, letting me fly. I know what he is asking and why and I love that
he is maintaining control for us.

I can’t hear them, can’t
see them, but I can feel the anonymous eyes watching as I hook the blanket and
slip higher, exposing the coy shadows and clefts of my groin. I imagine the
click of keys and mice driving the cameras to move and refocus.

This is my fantasy. As
I spread my legs, hook my right foot high on the bed frame, I want to be seen and
to be ignored. Want the focus narrowed to my blossoming cunt, the colours and curls
highlighted with succulent juices. To be the hole they want to fill.

Spreading myself wider
with my fingers I wonder if the slap and slurp will carry to the microphones or
whether this is another loss to technology. I soak my fingers, then taste them,
glossing the salty sweetness across my lips before licking them clean. Sucking
them, as if it were his mouth directly feeding from the source, bringing tongue
and teeth into action.

“Fuck. You taste so
good,” he groans, his voice filling my head. Maybe, like me, he can taste our
mingled flavours carried by the ghost of familiarity.

“Under the pillow. I
want to fuck you.”

I search out his cock
and close my fist on it, ignoring the cold hard surface in favour of the weight
in my hand. Imagine how I will look stretched and stuffed.

My dominant hand moves
without thought, directing the show. Pinching. Plucking. My hips grinding up to meet my hand
as though it was your weight they are seeking.

One hand clutching
your cold, glass cock, the other ravaging my swollen pussy, I wonder where your
eyes are? Whether the details you see are different from those chosen by others?
Finger-bruised nipples, proudly crowning
tits jiggling with exertion as I writhe against the bed. Unkissed lips, flushed
with desire and seasoned with lust.

It hurts to drive the
spear of glass into the hot mouth of my cunt. Aches as I yield to its uncompromising
hardness. Your cock, parting me. Fucking me.

You order me deeper
but I have no idea if the words were ever said aloud. I spread my legs further,
brace my feet through the bars of the footboard and fuck back, loving and
hating the bright bruise of sensation on every thrust as I reach my limit. Not
stopping, though the glass becomes slippery and warm.

Even as I feel you
inside me, I can picture your strong hand as certain and as rough with your body
as I am with mine. I set my pace by your harsh breaths and we move together
across the internet.

The hitch and the
stutter and growl of release signifies your orgasm and drives me to force your
glass cock hard and deep into my core until the pain blooms then implodes into
contractions of pleasure.

Later, when we can be together as me and you as much as Sir and petal, I will ask Sir about the watchers. I will choose if I want to know who they were, or if I want their identities to remain his secret. For now, your raspy voice creeps through me and round me, holding back my exhausted tears until you tell me they are gone and we are alone. I let you go slowly, the cameras motors whirring while their lights blink out as you turn them off. I hold you and you hold me until we are as ready as we can be, and you sign off from our call and return to the work that keeps us apart.

I’m a stickler for matching sets…some things are just meant to go together: bra and knickers, sheets and duvet covers… and in this case I loved it when I was presented with new rope to match my bedding set…

I know you can’t see all the previous versions of this post
I’ve written, but starting again and again and again is all I have done for
four years and this post was no different.

I’m not going to beat about the bush with trigger warnings because… take a look at the title and the link and think it through. What follows is a snapshot of what follows after child sex abuse from a parent’s perspective…But I will put a lovely picture here so you can escape without reading on if that it what you want to do.

Probably all you need to know is my children are loved and are loving.

I can’t say with honesty that I wanted to write this, because
this isn’t a fictional account. There have been more than enough opportunities
for openness to be cathartic for me not to be hoping for that. But I do want you to read this, because before
it happened to my family, I had no idea what happened when a child reported
abuse. I would have probably questioned
how it could happen, that children could be assaulted in their own home and the
parents not know. I think I assumed there were systems in place to support
children and families in this situation.

Four years ago, in the spring of 2015, at least two of my three neuro-diverse children were sexually assaulted by a man with impeccable qualifications and references we had employed to allow them a more normal life. The third child was too young for us to ever know definitively.

My eldest child told me they’d done something good and
positive with their carer. I knew it was sexual assault. I went straight to the
police.

In the spring of 2016, the man was sentenced to 10 years for
assaults to five children. I still don’t know exactly what charges pertained to
my two children, but I do know the two rape charges initially framed by the CPS
were dropped to one during the trial as part of the plea bargain. This lowered
the sentence tariff. He will serve 6 years and 8 months before he is eligible
for parole. Photographs of my children are in the darker parts of the internet
and my children’s pictures are with CEOPs so they can be identified and removed
if found. Somebody somewhere will have them on their hard drive.

I know my children were raped, whatever the precise legal
definition is, because they have told me so.

My children were not hurt or frightened by the assaults but were told they were acts of friendship. Would make them bigger and stronger to defeat their school bullies. That they should show other children how to do this because this is knowledge that should be shared. I don’t know if their abuser thought this a kindness, perhaps it was something he himself had been told, but it was his biggest act of cruelty. We recognised immediately that the children might go on to repeat these acts, because as concrete learners these instructions from their abuser we now embedded. Interventions couldn’t begin fully until the trial was over in case it tainted their potential evidence.

As a family we took the decision they must be supervised to
make sure they didn’t display their sexual knowledge to others. School couldn’t
do this, so we started to home educate and had to buy in more support to make
sure the children were properly supervised. We did this from our own pocket and
it was crippling… but what do you do when it rains (and it was pouring) but
spend your rainy day fund and hope that the rain stops.

During the heavy handed and non-autism friendly “recovery”
support my eldest child developed PTSD from being told the things that happened
to them were assaults. At our last scheduled session (because the children were
“fixed”) my middle child, broadly non-verbal at the time of the assaults,
suggested they had touched their younger sibling.

In the spring of 2017, we were put into Child Protection procedures
because our children were a risk to each other. There was no further money, but
our three children must have “constant supervision”. Because they had irregular
sleep patterns because of ADHD and Autism, this meant one parent with their ear
on them all night.

We had tried to keep everything light and normal at home. As
light or as normal as it can be when your child has been assaulted by someone
you told them to trust. Where you paid for the time they were being assaulted. Where
you allowed into your own home and didn’t know they were assaulting your child
20 feet from where you were cooking the evening meal. When as part of the
recovery we had to employ more carers, allow more professionals in and out of
our lives, while remaining vigilant at all times. While friends and family
pulled away because they could trust our children or our staff with their children.
Or us. I mean, who employs a paedophile to work with their children?

Then social services came into our home and told us we couldn’t cuddle up on the sofa under a blanket to watch TV in case someone was touching someone else inappropriately. We had to cover our bodies from neck to knee during the night so the children were not exposed to naked bodies. The misplacing of an SD card with some risqué home photos of us as parents resulted in a multi agency enquiry. Threats were made at meetings that our children wouldn’t be found suitable local foster families but would be split up and put in group homes.

Suddenly we lived in the world where schools wouldn’t take
the children because they posed a safeguarding risk, but elective home
education (because we’d initially withdrawn the children from school) is not
paid for. No-one funded the supervision at home so the financial stress went up
and up.

The soap opera that was now our life went on to the scene where the police referred themselves to the IPCC because they had caught our employee with child porn on his computer three years before we employed him and failed to take action because he was a child himself. I’m not wanting them to have jailed him at this point, but where was their responsibility to him as a child being groomed into thinking looking at images like this were all right, by his new “friends” on the dark web. Where another parent who’d employed him before us failed to report him to the police, just sacked him and hoped it would go away. Where, went they did go to the police, the police did nothing. That the police didn’t act didn’t surprise me anymore. When he was on bail, we reported to the police we’d seen the abuser on social media out with children. They did nothing then either, and he continued to abuse two family members for the 7 months between us going to the police and charges being brought, because the police hadn’t checked if children frequented his family home.

At the enquiry, an officer was blamed for everything and
everyone else had retired. We were advised to get a lawyer. We did. We now have
a barrister who at our first meeting victim shamed the women in a previous case
he’d worked on. We’d be ok, he said, because there was no question our children
were innocent, whereas she’d had a drink, worn a short skirt and got in a taxi.
We can’t sack him, because he represents the three families involved and he was
the barrister in the case where the legal precedent was set in this field of
law. He is our best chance of recouping some of the costs we’ve incurred, and
getting damages and further support for the children. And I would love to ignore
the costs, but we’ve spent well over £60,000 in carer support in four years and
paid for private education on top of that.

Eventually after 11 months of Child Protection procedures,
the children were identified by a psychologist to be less of risk to each other
than had been assumed, but to still need psychological help and support and
then we had to fight for this to be funded, because it is not NHS in our area
of the country. Less of a risk, not no risk. Every decision we make at home
with regards to supervision is still risk aware.

The children have gone back to school in the last few months.
Schools who put their fingers in their ears and sing “La, la, la” when we want
to talk PTSD triggers for both children. Because no-one likes to acknowledge
these children know about sex and giving them a PHSE lesson on sexting is not
something they need.

With the help of the psychologist we have started rebuilding
our children’s understanding of sex, which means being a very sex positive household.
Sex was never the problem here, breach of trust was. Abuse of power was. I want
my children to know that sex is not shameful. Not a source of physical or
emotional pain. Seeing naked bodies doesn’t make you a pervert.

God, that is fucking hard some days.

We have to focus on that. The intimacy of sexual contact is
an important part of the glue that holds my husband and I together. It is an
important part of who we are… this blog is a bit of a clue to that. But you can’t
ignore the dual edge of sex in our home.

Four years ago, a man came into our home and raped our
children when he was supposed to be helping them change their jumpers and
attend drama club.

We caught him. Stopped him. My eldest child was particularly
brave and gave super evidence to the police despite having communication
issues. Other children are safe because my child spoke up. We remind them of
that often. Several professionals have told us that the abuser was moving so
quickly increasing the severity of his crimes that he would have continued to escalate.
He drove an anonymous van with a
panelled rear. It is not a stretch to think where his behaviours may have gone.

I don’t know what our children’s prognosis is.

My eldest has learnt not to tell the truth to adults
anymore. That to tell them what happened opened pandora’s box. They have told
our psychologist that if it happened again, they wouldn’t tell, because the
consequences were too difficult.

My middle child has learnt that when people look at them, those
people find their body and face sexually appealing. They cannot take a
compliment because it may have repercussions.

My youngest child has grown up in a house where every penny
is spent on providing supervision, where there are more strangers in our lives
than family members. Where you can’t cuddle your siblings.

I can tell you that they are doing as well as could be possibly hoped for after all this. They have positive and trusting relationships with us and with their carers. That it’s become clear they have non-typical ideas of gender and sexuality and that they are more prepared and have more tools to deal with these things as they are going through puberty now and in the next few years than most LBGTQ+ children. That they are emotionally literate. And yes, we still cuddle.

I can tell you that the process, some of it still ongoing,
that follows reporting your children have been sexually assaulted is damaging to
the children and the family who are victims and that as soon as a child acts on
sexual knowledge obtained in the course of assault they become a “risk” not a “victim”
and we became “negligent” and “neglectful” for not being able to supervise
three disabled children around the clock and work to bring in enough money to
keep the household running, without having other adult help. That social workers
and schools are terrified of a sex positive approach, even when it is
psychologist led.

I have learnt that some people will always look at me as the
person who let their children be raped.

I posted my lovely man last week, so this week his challenge to me, was to post something personal.

I’m not a fan of my body (there’s too much of it for a start) however I am coming round to the idea that if I wouldn’t shame someone else for their body, I shouldn’t shame myself … and in the right bra, bits of it can be encouraged to an interesting shape.

In honour of a worthy bra that suffered a mortal wound last time I washed it and now must pass to the giant laundry basket in the sky, I present it’s last hurrah.

The cameras whirr very
gently as they move, so quietly it would be easy to miss it. I try to ignore them.
Try not to catch sight of them in the corner of my eye.

Nervous energy courses
through me, subduing my ability to create the correct headspace. I pace and
check the clock again. Sit on the bed, central in the virtually bare room. Stand
and smooth the pristine white sheet.

Check the ear pieces
in my pocket. Check my phone.

It rings as I stare at
it and I jump. It’s turned into alien tech and I press half a dozen buttons
before I actually manage to answer the damn thing. I press it to my ear as
though I could touch him through it.

No greeting. No
cheerful questions about how my day has gone so far. He is as excited by this
as I thought I would be.

“Check in, petal.”

I nearly reply automatically,
but stop myself and really think about it. Today is the same, but different.
The motor breaks the silence.

“It’s just me and you,
petal.”

The breath I didn’t
realise I was holding escapes with a sigh, but the words are still stuck in my
throat.

“It only has to be me
and you, if that’s what you want.”

“I’m scared.” I say,
but don’t follow through. Scared I’ll let him down. Scared of being judged. I
want to be… I don’t know… worthy?

“I’ll cancel. No-one
will mind.”

“No!” I surprise myself a little with the rush of disappointment.
“I’ll mind. Just need a few seconds.”

His headset mutes
automatically and I really wish I could hear him breathing instead of the void
down the line. “I’m putting in the ear pieces.” I tell him, as though he can’t
see everything, and I make the technical switch to hands-free. Take off my robe
and hang it on the back of the door.

I hear his gasped
intake of breath as though he was standing right beside me, and feel a flash of
reassurance. The midnight blue slip I’m wearing is not something I’d told him
about in advance, but I am guessing he approves.

“You look beautiful.” He pauses, “Check in, petal.”

“Ready, Sir.” Now I’ve
removed my robe, the silky fabric moves across my body and drags my skin into
awareness that snakes through me as a shiver. I wrap my arms across my chest, a
gesture half protective, half reflexive to the shiver.

“Once more for the
crowd?”

I’d forgotten.
Communication tonight is to be explicitly clear.

“Green, Sir.” I exhale
and feel my nerves dissipate.

He whispers in my ear
and I can almost feel his breath. “Do you remember the first time we did this? The
connection so jumpy. I was typing left handed to give you instructions, because
we didn’t have enough bandwidth for two-way video.” He is here but not here,
something we have become used to over the length of our relationship. From dodgy
Skyping and expensive video calls to our current web accessible camera streams.

I remember, and the
memory is hazy and intimate, filtered through the light of nostalgia of 16
years.

I’m still not sure of the etiquette, when someone posts a photo that makes your mouth water (and other delicious sensations)… but this week’s prompt photo for #MasturbationMonday was one of those.

This beautiful photo is Marie Rebelle’s, provided as prompt for Masturbation Monday and linked back to her original use “Twisted”

Nipple play has always featured strongly in my fantasies, which I found strange, since mine never seemed particularly sensitive in a sexual way. But still… it was a theme I returned to time and time again and something that always sent excitement curling through my body when I read about it, especially when combined with the idea of getting pierced.

So… some fiction… (after some detailed research).

Follow the link to see who else has been feeling inspired this week

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if it would hurt. How it would hurt.

“No.” she stated
firmly. One last look at the little purple dots in the mirror. “No questions.”

She felt a little hazy as she laid back on the medical couch, detaching from reality just a little.

The young piercer moved around the room unhurried but purposeful. Vacuum sealed implements laid out on the metal trolley, blue gloves snapped into place. The shiny titanium bars winked at her from the tray.

She had a tendency to fill quietness with conversation, but not today. She wanted to drift with the opportunity to tune in to her body.

This was nothing like the mindfulness course she’d been sent on. Lying on the floor of the community college while the teacher exhorted her to concentrate on relaxing her toes and imagining them scrunched into warm sand. Today she felt tranquility like summer sun on her skin: excitement the distant hum of bees in the flowers.

The cartilage in her ear had scrunched when the needle passed through. An unexpected sound. She didn’t think there would be a sound today.

The world shrank. She let go of the sounds from the shop outside, the press of the bench against her back, relaxed her jaw.

He takes me into the garden as day gives way to twilight. Over the wall, there is gentle babble of people enjoying a warm evening. Walking dogs. Playing football. The opening layer of bondage. Any words, any sounds, would carry the short few steps to the footpath, over the fence and fruit trees to the neighboring garden. I am bound into silence.

He strips me and leads me to kneel, air soft on naked skin, decking hard beneath my knees. I hear the rope swishing through his hands before he touches me. He makes me wait. Anticipate.

The bite and hold of rope. The pull of muscles held still. Rough fingers trailing proprietorially over portions left exposed. Each sensation layered upon the one before. Knots hanks of rope into bindings that say I am cared for. I am his.

Time has fallen silent. In my head. Between us.

Just the swish of the rope. The catch in my breath as he fucks into me. The stutter of his as he comes.